


Stitch, Incense, Sprain, Dina

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:23:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of fic requests:</p><p>Stitch: Dean takes care of Sam.<br/>Incense: Sam has short hair; Dean likes it.<br/>Sprain: Sam, Dean, and bandages<br/>Dina: Sam's older sister opened the door to all the other women in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitch, Incense, Sprain, Dina

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006

for rei_c: gen. sam, dean. pg. 550 words 

**

It's Sam who's got the clever fingers - long and elegant stretching out from those huge, broad palms. Not him; he looks down at his hands, and they're wide, scarred, from old hunts and new ones, cooking meals and cleaning guns. Rough like his Dad's, soft in one spot on his palm like he remembers his mother's had been. 

But he's got to be clever now, because there's no hospital for miles, and Sam's face looks half split open under the blood. 

He cups Sam's jaw gently, turning his head from side to side, not sure if Sam's trembling or if his hands are _they're not, they're not._

"Can you move? You feeling ok?" His voice comes out ragged, softer than he meant. He wipes his face with one hand. 

Sam nods gingerly beneath his touch. The cut arcs high and deep across one cheekbone, but his mouth is swollen too from another hit. Dean doesn't notice his hand tightening until Sam winces against the curve of his palm, ducking his head like he used to when he was little and hurt, but too stubborn to let Dad see his face. 

"Sorry, sorry," he says, not really paying attention to his words. "Gonna get you pretty again in no time ok?"

He tries for a grin, and it feels like brittle glass breaking over his lips. 

Sam almost laughs though, stops himself before he opens the wound even more, but his eyes are wide with a warm-bright roundness, one corner of his mouth tilted up just the slightest bit, his old trick of smiling when he didn't want other people to know. Sam, always with his secret laughs and wandering eyes. But Dean never missed it, always knew, always saw - it was for them, between them. 

Sam holds perfectly still for the first stitch, even when his eyes water. Dean feels clumsy with the thread, like his hands are too big for its delicate sweep, something meant to mend his brother's _skin_ , but he holds it lightly, so lightly. 

He remembers when he and Dad had been hunting, real hunting, before Sammy could walk, and he'd held the narrow chest of a rabbit in his hand, felt its fluttering heart beat itself out from sheer terror, how it'd throbbed, nestled in his palm, warm and soft and trembling, how he knew, _knew_ he had to be gentle, shift his hands until they knew too. 

The rabbit had died, but Sam just closes his eyes under Sam's touch, face oddly serene, his mouth soft in trust. Dean takes his time, winds the thread through his fingers, the needle, marks every tiny stitch with his eye, til he's got a neat row of them spread across Sam's cheek, skin pulled taut, but still smooth. 

He sits down on the bed, his legs a little unsteady. Sam's eyes open, thin and tired, and he cuts his gaze to Dean. 

"Thanks." Voice ragged from disuse, maybe softer than Sam means it too, but Dean lets his mouth curl, flops backwards on the bed. 

"Can't have you trashing the family standard of attractiveness, bro. Chicks dig scars, not open wounds." 

Sam does his almost-laugh again, "Whatever, Dean." And it's like the first time, his secret smile - for them, between them. 

Dean grins at the ceiling.

**

 

**

for ladyjaida: sam/dean. r. 727 words. 

**

The man runs one up Dean's leg, stretched out long and bare on the bed, and Dean actually arches into it, mumbling something that runs just under his breath like a chant. 

Sam stares. There's a sick, hot feeling curling up from his chest. He doesn't even remember moving toward the man, only the fact that he towers over him, satisfaction cutting sharp and clear through the angry haze at that. Then the man, older than he'd looked from the door, with a smile that sets off alarms in his head, is out like a light on the floor. 

Sam looks down at his hands, the raw knuckles standing out red and sharp. He stalks toward the bed, head still ringing with _why? what the fuck?_

Dean looks completely wrecked. 

Sam can see that his eyes are blown, only a thin sliver of green surrounding the dilated pupils. He's wearing a dazed smile that softens his face into one that Sam hardly recognizes. 

"Sammy?" He slurs out the word into several syllables, eyes not quite focusing. 

Sam drops to his knees beside the bed, fingers at Dean's throat to check his pulse - fluttering madly, holding his eyelids to get a better look at his eyes - still blown. 

Dean squirms, arches right into his touch and _mewls_ ; Sam starts to think he inhaled something too because he never thought he'd ever have to use that word to describe his brother, but it's happening right in front of him. 

"Oh my god," Sam mutters, "are you _high?_ " 

The room does have a thick, indefinable scent that clings to their hair and clothes, sickly sweet with a hint of something burning beneath it. He tries to shorten his breaths, move quickly. 

Then there's one hand lazily, unsteadily running through the soft buzz of his newly shorn hair. That was the moment, when the white robed girl had run the razor across his skull, that Sam decided this was possibly the worst job they'd ever taken on. He'd never trusted cults, and now he knows why.

"Sammy," Dean tries again, a little bit more clearly his time, his voices soft with wonder. "Wha - What happened to your _hair?_ "

Sam rolls his eyes, slips one arm under Dean's shoulder, and Jesus, he really wasn't wearing anything, was he? 

"Come on - I broke the summoning circle. Let's get out of here." 

"But I like it here," Dean insists, lolling alarmingly against him, mouth wet and warm on the side the side of Sam's neck. "I - I think I like you here. Smell good. Like your hair." 

"What?"

Then Dean squirms against him, rubbing, and suddenly, Sam's own white robes are during a shit job of hiding an erection. He groans; from what exactly, he's not sure. Worse, he almost, almost wants to lean into Dean's hand, familiar and callused, stroking the back of his head, a completely alien feeling of air and flesh moving through the soft spiky tufts that are what's left of his hair. 

Sam shakes his head roughly, hefts his arm again, Dean a near dead weight against him. 

"Dean, come _on_. We need to go." 

Except Dean's arms are suddenly around his neck, his mouth over Sam's, impossibly warm, tongue darting out to trace his lips. Sam moans into it, one hand skating down the bare length of Dean's spine, hovering over the lowest dip. 

He jerks back. Is _he_ high too? He knew he shouldn't have trusted any food they gave them, and now - 

Dean's hand, not on his shoulder any more, but rough and brown dipping under the fold of the white robe _pure, yeah right_ , to circle Sam's cock, so, so casually. Dean's mouth, full and a little swollen, dipping to his neck in a streak of wet heat. Dean's voice, mumbled against his skin so there's a low roar of just _samsamsam_ soaking into his flesh, steady and low. 

Sam groans sharply, his hips going forward almost instinctively, cock jumping in Dean's hand. There are so many things wrong with this, so many things, but his mind's growing a little fuzzy and - 

then Dean's somehow pushing him backwards onto the bed, still drumming a litany of some fast, increasingly indecipherable language against Sam's throat, all warm skin and impossibly lazy smile. Dean leans up, stretches, muscles moving smoothly under his skin, legs spread wide to straddle him. 

And Sam thinks _fuck it._

**

 

**

for deidre_c: sam/dean. nc-17. 830 words. 

**

"Not a word." Dean wobbles toward the bed. "Not a single fucking word." 

Sam shakes his head, "Dean, you took a header off a horse and sprained _both your wrists._ I can carry the gear ok?" 

"I knew the damn thing was weird. It _looked_ at me weird."

"She," Sam corrects absent-mindedly. 

Dean turns around slowly, his eyes narrowed. 

"She," Sam clarifies. "The horse was a mare." 

Dean stares at him like they're five and nine again, and Sam's just spilled the milk, wide-eyed and frozen. 

"Dude, do I look like I _care_?" 

Dean winces a little when he sits down, his arms held stiffly in front of him, the white bandages peaking out of too long sleeves. There's a bruise high across one cheekbone, his mouth curving soft and hurt.

"You shouldn't pick at them," Sam sighs. "We're out of pain meds." 

He moves toward the bed, slides his fingers under the jacket's lapels, tugging gently until it's pooling around his brother's shoulders, surprised when Dean doesn't protest at all, maybe even more tired than he'd thought. He works out first one sleeve, careful not to jar the wrist, then the other, tracking the slide of rough cloth over skin. He goes as slowly as he can, but Dean's still sweating and tense by the time the thing's off. Sam touches one hand lightly to the bruised cheekbone, posture softening when Dean jerks his head to one side, eyes shadowed. 

"Well maybe if you'd done your research you wouldn't have come this close to breaking your neck." 

He remembers seeing the horse whine and rear, Dean barely managing to hang on for the first buck, and god, did Dean even _know_ to ride? He'd thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest when the damn thing stopped short, sending Dean flying over its neck, body crumpling onto the ground with a jarring crunch. 

"I wasn't going to break my neck," Dean mutters at his hands, now held straight over his lap. "Got reflexes, man." 

"You're lucky you didn't break anything," Sam murmurs. 

Dean looks up at him, wide eyed and accusing, his freckles standing out like ink blots on skin that's bruised and paper thin. He looks ridiculous and awkward perched on the bed, clad only in a thin black T-shirt that stretches a little too tightly across his shoulders. The pale bandages that trap his hands and wrists look like a boxer's prizes, climbing tight and white-tough up the tense tan of his forearms. He almost fits the picture with his hunched, hurt posture and bruised face, but Sam still has to fight the urge to smooth down an unruly tuft of hair. 

Dean would kill him. 

So instead he splays one hand over Dean's chest, slowly pushing him backwards until until Sam's hunched over him on the bed. Dean looks up at him almost quizzically, his eyes a little fuzzy. 

"Can you lift your arms?" 

Dean nods, does it while keeping his wrists straight.

Sam lifts up the edge of the shirt so Dean's breath hitches a little, presses his mouth to the tanned, taut skin he finds there, palms the curve of the hip.

"You shouldn't move," he says into Dean's stomach. "Your wrists." 

"You got balls, Sammy," Dean almost growls, but there's no real bite to it. 

Sam undoes the fly quickly. He doesn't have to be careful here, hand stroking Dean's cock until it starts to swell against him, only a thin barrier of cotton between them. Dean groans above him, squirming. 

"Don't move," he reminds him.

"Fuck you," a gritted mutter. 

Sam smiles. "Lift up," he coaxes, and Dean arches, slowly, carefully, so his arms are still straight. Sam slides the jeans, the boxers down over his hips, looks at his brother's cock, curved and half hard, skin soft in his hand. 

After awhile, Dean smirks at him, "Jealous?"

Sam mouths the tip as an answer, and Dean jerks against him, "Jesus, Sammy." 

He sworls his tongue around the top, folding his lips and moving deeper, til its blunt head nudges the back of his throat, pressing on his tongue, heavy and full. He can feel Dean struggling to stay still, presses a hand down on one hip to help him as he sucks, slow and lazy until Dean's cursing above him, voice strained and rough.

"Fuck, Sam, wanna grab your hair." 

But he can't, so Sam hollows his cheeks instead, tilts his head and breathes to the rhythm of Dean's moans, one hand tracing the delicate, crinkled skin behind Dean's balls, heavy in his palm. 

When Dean comes, he's perfectly still, arms crossed against him, hips arched flush against Sam. 

Sam wriggles up the bed, flopping on his stomach alongside Dean, idly cradling one hand low against his brother's hip. Dean stares straight up, hair damp and even more mussed than before, eyes a little glassy. His arms are still held straight above his head, bent only at the elbow so they almost cross. 

"Well," he manages hoarsely, "gotta give it you, Sam. That was better than pain meds." 

**

 

** 

for onelittlesleep: girl!Dean. gen. pg-13. 500 words. 

**

First he thinks, She's small. 

Not that she is, because Dina's not tall, but she's not short, built lean, whip thin with wide, straight shoulders always thrust back to show off the generous swell of breasts beneath the thin slip slide of her tank top. 

She's just smaller than he remembers, grin firmly in place, with an unfamiliar nervous edge threading through it so it seems to tremble within the borders of her face. 

Her stance is a little wary, feet wide apart, fists curled loosely by her sides. Beside him, Jess is tense. The two of them stare at each other like cats, fur ruffled, little bright teeth sharp and bared in the dim light. 

Wildly, Sam's mind swings into the future, wonders what he's going to do if they fight, if _these_ girls won't settle for sharing, then he recovers, thinking sister, sister, hanging onto the word desperately. He hasn't explained _how?_ Hasn't even really spoken. 

"Jess," he says, and she shades her eyes at him, bright and wary. 

"This is my sister, Dina." 

Jess' smile uncurls slow and bright in the way that always struck him straight in the gut, and he can see her teeth now, pearly white and blunt. 

When they go outside though, he still feels Jess' eyes on his back, so he keeps his own fixed on the back of Dina's head, the hair curling soft around the nape of her neck. 

When he refuses at first, she just looks tired, the skin under her eyes thin and brittle, her mouth curling down, sharp edged and waiting. He looks at the set of her shoulders, the slight curve of her belly and hips beneath the tank top, bared by the tight, low cut jeans. 

That much is the same, Dina never able to walk like a normal person, always strutting, so the small town moms closed their mouths tight when she was mentioned, saw only her mouth _too quick, too lush_ , her jeans _too tight_ , her eyes _too old_. Dad had frowned at the cigarettes, cracked like a mountain over the boys, but he'd never really been able to stop her either. 

"Are you kidding me? Of _course_ you should be afraid of the dark." 

He remembers when they'd been younger, when she'd grown out those curves and dips so she hugged him, punched him more comfortably. The two of them in the dirt-dim kitchen, too big for its walls, Dad gone, a meal cooling on the table. 

You're not my mother, he'd said, and she'd looked tired then too. 

He flushes with something like shame, years later, bows his head when she says, Yeah, well I don't want to. 

"So what are we hunting?" 

 

**


End file.
